Appearances
by Calleo
Summary: Outward appearances can, occasionally, be dangerously inaccurate.


"_I could break you, Elf."_

He'd lost track of time.  
In fact, the last thing he could coherently recall was the Elf answering that he'd 'see about that'.

Every movement, right down to the act of breathing, hurt.  
From what he could see, however, there were no physical wounds or marks, just an overall feeling of crushing fatigue mingled with a pain that turned from dull to stabbing with any subtle movement.  
He had his armor, his weapons were well within reach, and he had absolutely no memory of how he'd ended up alone, in an unfamiliar building, and with an _Elf_.

At least the overstuffed chair was comfortable, if a bit small.

He shook his head, hoping that a good jolt of whatever the hell was causing that stabbing feeling would clear his mind or, if not that, at least momentarily take his focus away from the Elf that had been talking at him.  
This situation was inconceivable to him; the creature circling him, he was certain, couldn't have even been six feet tall and, even worse, looked as though the robes it was wearing were heavier than it was.  
Hindsight told him that he should have recognized the signs of one of those finger wiggling magic users; he'd keep that in mind for next time.

The imp that grinned at him from an end table had clued him into the fact that he'd picked a fight with a warlock; hindsight again.  
In fact, the Elf that had now paused behind the chair and was _petting him _like he were a dog appeared nothing like the awkward seeming, quiet, squinting little idiot that had been whining that he just wanted to be left alone to balance books on something in a _bar_.

The Elf in the room moved like a worg sizing up a potential meal: no wandering from the target, no hesitation, no uncertainty. Under other circumstances, he might have thought the warlock seemed rather graceful.

The damned thing had been talking at him for—well—he couldn't recall for how long, or really what the Elf had been saying.

However, the warlock's _voice_ was maddening: The tenor always even, rarely changing, even in volume; it had the low, predatory sound of someone who didn't merely assume that they were in control, but rather of one who simply _knew_ it.  
If the Elf indeed had any doubts as to his methods, visual or audible evidence was present.

"Your sort always was my favorite, really," the hand that had been almost delicately weaving itself through his hair suddenly tightened, forcing his head back to look up at the Elf standing behind him.

A narrowed, cruel set of green eyes, occasionally partially obscured by a bit of loose, red hair met him; those alone had long since shattered the illusion of soft playfulness indicated by the warlock's smile and they certainly didn't fall in line with the almost affectionate hand on the side of his face, "You think you hide it so well; that I wouldn't notice, that I _couldn't_-"

"But it's obvious," the free hand that had been tracing the outline of his face, eventually moving down the front of his neck, runes skittering along their path, "at least to me; little things, things you think go unnoticed."

The hand stopped, resting lightly over his windpipe, "Your breathing—your pulse rate," the voice moved closer to his left ear, "even the way you try to brace yourself against what your mind knows is inevitable when you actually notice the runes being woven—all of it moves in perfect synchronization to my activation of each little curse."

"The best part, however, is the fleeting look of abject terror that so briefly shows itself."  
For a moment, a strange, slithering sensation felt as though it were radiating from where the hand on his neck was resting,"It's the little details that make the moment."

He closed his eyes, trying to shake the distinct feeling of _something_ crawling over every last bit of his skin, before snarling through gritted teeth, "I'm not about to—"

The Elf laughed quietly and the sensation stopped rather abruptly, "—give me the satisfaction? I'm well aware. No matter; there's no fun in having what we want simply given to us without a bit of work involved, is there? But, really," that sick, slithering sensation returned, "I know your sort. Physical prowess above everything; physical weakness being the biggest sin of them all."

The warlock continued, "And there's nothing behind the wall; no substance, no power, no _actual_ strength," the hand in his hair loosened its grip, allowing him to lower his head into a less uncomfortable position, "armor covered peacocks, really; it's so easy to capture you with even the most obvious flattery."

"True power," the hand in his hair seemed to be absently winding through it, continuing to give a somewhat irritating impression that the Elf viewed him as some sort of pet, "so very rarely manifests itself in the physical alone."

He opened his eyes, immediately wishing that he had not; glancing down he saw every bit of exposed skin covered in a web of faintly glowing runes that appeared to be twisting and damn near alive. He chanced a movement, biting back a painful gasp, to remove one of his gloves. Dropping the article of clothing, he stared, horrified, at the hand that he'd hoped would have been clear of—whatever it was the Elf had done.  
The question manifested itself barely an audible, choked whisper, "What do you want?"

Cursing himself silently for what he knew must be, to the warlock, a question dripping with fear, he waited.

Under nearly any other circumstance, the soft laugh, the hand that slid up from its resting spot on his neck to trace his jaw line, and that nuzzle to his ear would have been sickeningly affectionate.  
The answer came as one final word; a last vicious, sharp whisper that finally matched the awful fel-tainted glint that so _mis_matched the Elf's physical actions, before coherent thought gave way to blind agony:

"_Beg._"


End file.
